


Slaves to the Flesh

by menagerie



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Age, Bad Parenting, Daddy Kink, Don't Like Don't Read, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Erik Has Feelings, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Parent/Child Incest, Prompt Fill, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Walking In On Someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22675399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menagerie/pseuds/menagerie
Summary: Magneto walks in on his son getting screwed by another man, and has some confusing emotions about it.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Pietro Maximoff
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	Slaves to the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for my friend, who requested a fic wherin Magneto walks in on his son getting railed, and later gets off on it.
> 
> The character Pietro is having sex with is Lance Alvers/"Avalanche" from X-Men: Evolution.
> 
> If you'd like to read more of my incestuous Magneto fics, I've got a whole series on [my other AO3.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1079988) (I'm trying to keep all the fics that would make baby Jesus cry on THIS account from now on, though.)

It wasn’t so much that it _happened _as that it _happened during work._  
  
Or so Erik told himself, anyway.

And it wasn’t that he _cared _that his son was a complete whore. That he’d spread his legs or drop to his knees for any man who paid him an ounce of attention; human _or _mutant. It certainly never left him feeling hot in the chest, and it was only irritation that plagued him; never jealousy. What was there to be jealous about?

So when he heard the bedsprings creaking in his sons bedroom; when he heard the labored breathing; the muffled grunts and moans through the boy's door, it was only natural that he felt a hot rush of anger that he quickly cooled to a frosty chill. He knew his son was irresponsible; foolish; idiotic. But he had, however mistakenly, believed him better than_ this._

"Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck!" _He heard his son whine; the rapid slap of skin on skin growing in volume the closer Erik came to the door. "Harder!"

Erik grit his teeth. He'd left the house not an hour prior; had left his son in charge of surveilance footage watching the sites of their next targets: the JP Morgan bank; the Plaza Hotel _and _the Ritz. The Empire State Building, of course. They were terrrorists, after all; to spread their message, they had to target large and famous landmarks. Pietro had been assigned to keep an eye on Erik's various plainclothes agents stationed at each location. To keep an eye out for trouble. To sprint for them if they needed anything; aid, supplies, protection...  
  
Apparently, he couldn't even do _that_ right.  
  
He stood outside the door, listening, planning what to do next. His son would need to be punished, of course, and severely. But how best to...  
  
_"Please, daddy!"_  
  
Erik froze, all thought fleeing as he stared, wide-eyed, at the door.

Pietro had never called_ him_ 'daddy.' As a child, it had been_ 'tatuś._' Now, it was only ever 'father,' or 'sir.' Sometimes just 'Magneto.'

Still... Still. The word struck a chord in him. His anger flared anew, hot and bitter. How dare his son -- _his _son! _\-- _call another man such a thing?! Here, of all places, under the roof _he_ had bought and paid for... Didn't Pietro know who he _belonged_ to?!  
  
Blood boiling hot, Erik seized the handle of the door, twisted it, and strode in... All without using his hands.  
  
He was greeted by quite an eyeful. Pietro, kneeling on his bed, bare and dewy and flushed. He was broader in chest and shoulder than he'd been the last Erik saw him undressed; closer to man, now, than boy. He took after his mother, in many ways. Thinner than his father. Sprightly and fae. He was golden, even in winter; more Roma than Polish.

_Foppish, _thought Erik, cruelly. His son's cock, protected by its soft nest of silver curls, was hard and dripping; gripped in the large, brown hand of the Avalanche. _Effeminite. Priggish. Selfish. Vain. _

He tried not to think: _beautiful._

The Avalanche was roughly fucking into his son, an arm 'round his waist holding him still, pistoning hips slapping Pietro's ass loud enough to echo. They made a pretty picture, alright; something rendered in oil paints and gold leaf, titled on a placard. _Debauchery on Mount Olympus_, perhaps, or_ Youthful Romp_, should the artist be more whimsically inclined.

"Oh, fuck, baby boy," Lance growled into Pietro's shoulder, bending him forward and gripping his shoulders tight. "Your ass is so tight. _Fuck,_ I'm gonna--!"  
  
"Let me come first, daddy?" Pietro pled, voice high, shaky. "Please, fuck, I love... I _love_ it when I--"  
  
"You love it when it hurts." There was something terribly knowing in the Avalanche's voice just then. Erik had no doubt these two had fucked before, for Lance to "know" his son; to know his filthy needs and urges; so very well.  
  
Erik watched, cold as ice, as Lance increased his tempo. The jerking of his fist around a dripping cock. No finesse, that boy; it was all slamming and grunting, taking his own pleasure with little mind to his partner's. How often did he even come close to Pietro's prostate; twenty percent? Thirty? Was his son really _so_ desperate for a fuck that he'd take even _this_ mediocre rendezvous? Pathetic. Slaves to their own flesh; the both of them. Erik's lip curled in disgust.

Behind them, on the dozens of computer screens it'd taken Erik nearly two hours to set up, surveilance footage from all the locations Pietro was _supposed _to be watching played out, unmonitered. Sabertooth, Gambit, Colossus, and Raven could _all _be fighting off hoards of sentinals, and Pietro wouldn't have the first clue.

Lance shoved Pietro forward until his chest was on the bed; his ass in the air. He seized a fistful of that silvery hair and gripped it, fucking him so hard and fast and unevenly that he must be approaching orgasm. Judging by the redness in his face, the way his teeth clenched, Erik would wager half a minute, at best.  
  
Pietro opened his mouth to moan... And then he stiffened, his eyes locking on his father. For a moment, there was only dazed confusion in his eyes...  
  
And then panic.

"Tatuś!" he gasped, his voice very different than before. He reached behind himself, pushing at Lance's chest. "Stop, Lance. Stop!"

For a moment, it seemed as though Lance was going to ignore this. Erik heard the distant rumble of the iron headboard; the metallic window frame, as his temper began to rise. Pietro had _told_ the Avalanche to stop. Magneto may not be the best father the world had ever seen, but he would _not_ stand to watch his son be violated without his consent--

Then Lance's eyes opened, too.

"Oh, _fuck!" _he yelped, horror and realization dawning. He jolted away from Pietro like he'd been shocked by a cattle prod, scrabbling back on the bed. "Sir... Magneto..."  
  
Magneto waited, arms crossed, for an impossible explanation that would never come. "What is it, Mr. Alvers?" he asked. "Did you, perhaps, trip while changing clothes, and fall cock-first into my son's ass? A mistake any fool could make, I'm sure."

"Father!" Pietro snapped, sitting back and pulling a pillow over his lap. "Can you get _out,_ please?!"

"Mm, no. I'm rather too familiar with your habit of running away from your messes." He let his eyes, his disdain, linger on Lance's face when he said this, making it very clear how he felt about the boy. "And, clearly, you aren't so_ very_ shy or modest, _are _you, kochanie?"  
  
Pietro seethed, red-faced and furious, torn somewhere between rage and humiliation. His jaw worked, trying to form words that would not come.  
  
Coldly, Magneto ignored him, instead turning his full attention on the Avalanche. "You had your orders, and yet you defy me? War has no time for leisure, Mr. Alvers."  
  
"Sir, I know... Sir, I'm sorry--" He grovelled. Of course he did, head hanging like a dog facing the whip. How Pietro ever allowed such a weak excuse for a man to lay hands on him...! It made Magneto _sick._  
  
"Back to your post, Avalanche," Magneto commanded. "I'll deal with you later."  
  
Out Lance ran, a coward until the end, covering his genitals with a bundle of his clothing. He didn't so much as offer Pietro an apologetic glance.  
  
Silence reigned between father and son. The skunk-musk of bodies in heat lingered, fanning Erik's blood like cinnamon to the pores; like red to a bull. His son was pure lust. Something had to be done about this creature he had created.  
  
"You've disappointed and shamed me," Erik told Pietro, his voice low and steady, deep and formal; the voice he used to command armies; to start and end wars. "Your mother would be hanging her head."  
  
It was a low blow, to envoke the late Magda. Perhaps the one person, besides his sister, that Pietro cared about at all. He felt a brief flicker of guilt at the sudden hurt in those too-blue eyes. Too far? A good captain always knew when to stay his hand. But Erik was so _angry..._

_Punishment is useless if it doesn't teach, _he reminded himself, forcing himself to reign it back in. _Anger is a tool, not a master. _"I expect better from you, going forward," he informed his son. "I didn't break you out of prison for you to play games with silly little boys. We have important work to do, if you hadn't noticed."  
  
"Father, I--"  
  
"I don't want to hear it! We don't have time for your teenage hormones. What must I do; create a medication to lower your impulses? Fuck you _myself,_ little slut?!"

There was a pause. A long pause. Pietro's eyes were twin blue saphires taking up half his face; he gaped in such astonishment. _"Papa!!"   
  
_Erik swallowed. His control had lapsed. He'd given voice to the forbidden, and the consequence was_ this l_ook on Pietro's face. _This _flicker of understanding in his eyes.  
  
Erik didn't _want_ to be understood. Least of all by the whelp he'd sired. "If this happens again, your punishment will be severe," he said, envisioning a a wall of frost forming between himself and the boy; so cold it made Pietro wince and draw back. So thick that nobody could guess the true, molten heat of his feelings just beneath. "Get back to work, immediately."  
  
He turned his back and left the room.  
  
Later, hours later, hidden in the spacious safety, the privacy, of his own bedroom, Erik used his powers to undo the clasps of his armor. To lay out bare on his sheets and stare at the ceiling. Everything between his legs ached in a familiar, nauseating way; a way he tried so hard to ignore, and yet...

How he restented his own body; the flesh prison required to keep his brilliant mind alive. Mind over matter had gotten him through so much, and yet this body was constantly calling out for food; for water; for warmth or cool air. 

... For the press and slide of smooth, _hot_ golden flesh against his own...

Erik closed his eyes, head falling back, and succumbed to animal filth. Best get it over with, while defenses were down. He gripped himself and stroked. Up and down, up and down; mindlessly simple and so, so beneath him.

_"Yes," _whispered a breathy voice in his mind; a voice that he didn't even _try_ to pretend was anybody but who it was. _"Yes, harder, daddy..."_

**Author's Note:**

> Tatuś = Daddy; papa.  
Kochanie = Sweetie; darling.


End file.
